Better Strangers
by Mebaelle
Summary: If I die at the hands of pureblooded gits, or rather at the wands of them I suppose, then I will die a martyr for literature. Josephine Wakefield, or how to bring the wizarding world into the twenty first century.


Hi ! So this is my first story in english so I really hope you guys enjoy it ! I'll just let you carry on reading and please, please tell me what you think !

Disclaimer : I obviously own nothing you recognize.

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It was a dull afternoon. The sky was grey; the ground was still wet from the morning rain and I was in a wretched mood. Not happy enough to go out, not bored enough to take a nap… Not even in the mood to read. Which doesn't happen to me all that often. I could hear my brother rummaging in the kitchen, trying to find two clean mugs for the tea he offered fifteen minutes ago. He'd been living in this flat longer than me and still had no idea where anything was. I decided not to help him and kept staring out the window. The red bricks detached vividly against the sad grey sky. For a brief moment, I wondered who, in days of not-so-old, had decided that London should be covered in every shade of brick conceivable.

Tom – the mug-searching brother – had stopped turning every cupboard inside-out. Maybe he had indeed decided to take one of the hundred dirty cups he kept in his room and clean it. Unlikely though.

I turned around just in time to watch him struggle to bring two cups to the table without emptying them on the floor. Tongue out of his mouth in concentration, eyes focused on the two mugs. And that, ladies and gentlemen, I thought, is the sort of men we employ to keep the Queen's peace.

Once the mugs were safely on the table, I turned around to join him. I was in the middle of a rant against my boss when he decided it was time for a cuppa. I suppose he hoped that would give me time to cool down.

He sat himself on a chair and looked up at me with is stupid twinkling eyes.

'You know what dad would tell you'

Of course I did. Dad would've looked at me above his glasses and told me that "anyone bending the laws of physics to their will doesn't get the right to complain". Bending the laws of physics… I smiled. That's how my father refers to magic. As opposed to Tom, who has taken to calling it "weird bollocks". _Jo, could you bollock the dishes to wash themselves?_

He asks that almost every evening. And I keep answering by the negative, because doing it will do him good. So the dishes stay where they are, become home to a very interesting and diverse population of fungi until I can't take the smell anymore and _bollock_ them clean.

'I do. That's why I'm not complaining to him.'

'Why are you complaining at all ?'He asks. 'At least you've got a job.'

'A job that's going to get me killed !'

'No worries, I'll help the magic coppers avenge you Jo'

 _Idiot._ I take a sip to hide my smile. My brother always make everything better. Funnier. He never worries about anything, or maybe he does, just not about things I worry about. His head is always somewhere else, like he can't handle just doing one thing at a time. It just bores his hyperactive – though not brilliant for it – little brain. I blame my dad and his name choice for that.

My brother's name is Tom, my dad told me, simply because that means he can call him and say "Ground control to Major Tom". As in the Bowie song. Like naming a kid for a David Bowie song would ever be a good thing. No wonder he's deranged.

'Maybe you'll write a book about this'

'About the Malfoys ?' I ask, incredulous. Did he hear anything I said earlier about them ?

'About how to become a magic nazi maybe…'

'I see myself obligated to tell you you're an idiot, Tom.'

'Careful. Don't insult an officer of the law.' He answers, tapping his pocket where I know he keeps his badge.

'Ah, sorry.' I say sheepishly. 'You're an idiot, DS Wakefield.'

He snorts into his cup of tea and buggers off towards his room. That's another Shakespeare quote bearing mug I won't ever see again.

I look down at mine. I can feel myself grinning involuntarily. The git ! I lift the mug in front of my face and stare at the black cursive writing. _The Lady doth protest too much methinks._ A chuckle escapes my lips. What an absolute git.

I go back to work the next day with the firm intention of convincing my boss to give up his stupid and potentially dangerous idea before I get offed and stacked in a basement by the magic nazis. Do they even have basements, or is just cells and torture chambers ? The question keeps my mind busy while I make my way onto Diagon Alley. I pass the outrageously colorful front of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and keep going, thoughts diverting to wether I should say goodbye to my friends before going to the Malfoys.

I come to a stop in front of Flourish and Blotts and decide that maybe throwing a farewell party for myself would be a tad too dramatic.

As I enter, the smell of ink and parchment, dust and old books hits me, just like it does every morning. I smile and breathe deeply. This is my world, books and quills and written words everywhere.

I make my way to the back of the shop, throwing my cloak and bag on a nearby chair. Mr Blotts is counting the books piled neatly on the oak table, two cups which I suspect he poured himself and then forgot, are waiting next to the kettle.

I smile as he turns around, noticing my arrival, and frowns at my yellow skirt. He's not a fan of muggle clothing, even hidden under a cloak.

'Mr Blotts' I say, picking up one of the stray cups of tea. 'I'd like to talk to you about this Malfoy thing.'

'The memorial exposition?' He asks, still counting his books.

I can hear him muttering under his breath: twenty-one, twenty-two…

'What about it?'

Twenty-three, twenty-four…

'I don't feel comfortable going to the Malfoys, sir.' I say, hand firmly gripping my cup and heart beating in my mouth. What if he sacks me for that?

Well, I supposed sacked is better than dead in a basement. Or dead in a cell or whatever it is they imprison people in at Malfoy Manor. Mr Blotts gives up counting and turns to me, crossing his arms.

'How else do you suggest we do this exposition, Josephine?'

I refrain from saying I suggest we don't do it because that would absolutely get me sacked before I finish my tea. Or rather his tea but he keeps leaving cups everywhere, which is a waste of Earl Grey.

Memorial Exposition. They've been doing one since the war, on Memorial Day. The first one was about unsung heroes, Sirius Black the wrongfully accused murderer, Remus Lupin the rejected Werewolf, Severus Snape the creepiest scorned lover in history…

The second one I can't even remember; I think it was something to do with the Order of the Phoenix. All that was fine by me, it gave me a bit of writing to do, people to meet and excuses not to talk to customers.

But this year, Merlin had descended from the Heavens above and graced Mr Blotts with an idea : let us consider the other side. The _wrong_ side of the war.

And so, I was asked to drop old Alberta and let her find her book alone – which I'm not sure she paid for because she's a cunning old hag – and was, for all intents and purposes, ordered to interview the Malfoy family and friends. _To get an idea of their life during the war._

Me, the muggle-born librarian, daughter of a physics professor and sister to London's stupidest copper.

Mr Blotts notices the cup in my hands.

'Is that my cup?'

'No sir, yours is here' I say, pointing the one left on the counter top.

'Ah yes' he picks it up and takes a sip. 'You know Josephine, I think you're simply not putting your back into this project.'

Well. This is not a good sign. I can't say he's wrong though, I'm definitely not putting my back or any other body part into this project of his. Because I happen, strangely, to value my life quite a bit.

'I think I should motivate you a bit more'.

Is it a threat? Am I getting threatened by a century-old wizard who can't even locate his wand half the time ?

'If you carry on with this project, I will let you set up your muggle shelf in the shop'

I nearly drop my cup. I've been badgering him about this for a year now! Because the Wizarding world has no proper literature, and I cannot, for the life of me, fathom growing up without Jane Austen. I bite my lower lip to stop myself from shouting victory. Partly because it would be inappropriate, and partly because I haven't won at all. If anything, this means I will absolutely have to go to Malfoy Manor and all the other pureblooded muggle-hating stuck-up families in the United Kingdom. This is not something to shout victory over.

The manipulating old bat turns back to counting his books and I go to the front of the shop, already thinking of how I will bring literacy into the magical world. Because these people, for all their potions and spells, need to understand the magic of words and I will not spend my life in a community of illiterate, Shakespeare-ignorant pricks.

And if I die at the hands of the Malfoys, or rather at the wands of them I suppose, then I will die a martyr for literature.

Fitting end for the bookworm that I am, Tom would have a field day at my funeral.

* * *

'DS Wakefield, how good of you to join.'

That would be DCI Marlowe. She's standing in front of an apartment complex on Marigold Street, a cigarette in hand.

'Sorry guv, my sister just had a telephonic meltdown.' I say as an apology. DCI Marlowe knows of my sister. Not of her weird magical bollocks but she knows Jo is downright mental so she forgives easily. In fairness, nobody needs to stay long in my sister's presence to realize that.

'What was it, upset because Mr Darcy is perfect and she can't find one like him?' She asks, throwing her cigarette butt on the pavement. I grin at the memory. That was a year ago, the day Jo came to visit me for my lunch break. Some poor sod had said something about her … well her chest area which I don't like to think about. That had caused her to throw a tantrum in the middle of Bromley Station about how us men where not fit to call ourselves heirs to Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy and had indeed gone back to Neanderthal level manners. I dare say no copper in London will ever try to date my sister now.

'Something about being forced to go to Mordor by her boss and being afraid of dying on the slopes of Mount Doom.' I'm not even joking, that was exactly what Jo's phone call was about. Her not being a brave Hobbit and whatnot.

DCI Marlowe stares at me for a few seconds before snorting and leading me into the building.

I follow her into the first flat on the left of the entry.

Usually, and I say this because of my wide experience of three murders, the scene smells. It reeks of decomposing organic matter, and by organic, I mean human. Bins left for too long, maybe dogs that haven't been taken out, the odd fridge left open… It always smells of something, and whatever it is it smells bad.

There was none of that. The flat smelled of vanilla, from one of those Ikea candles. I know because my sister has a stack of them in her room, I make a point of checking every night before going to bed that she didn't leave them lit up before falling asleep. It happened once and she nearly set her bed alight… Would've if she hadn't bollocked some water out of thin air to stop it.

Marlowe eyes me knowingly and motions for me to follow her.

'Victim is Ingrid Jones, aged twenty, worked at the Tower of London' She says, leading me through a carpeted corridor to the bedroom.

And there she is. In a green silk robe, lying amidst the white sheets, peaceful. Dead.

'Sure this is one for us, guv?' I ask Marlowe.

'Pathologist says so.' She answers with a shrug; 'Says twentysomethings with no history of heart defects don't just pop their clogs for no reason'.

'So we have a cause of death then?'

'Nah. What we have is… well, we've got nothing.' She doesn't seem to be taken with the mystery, 'Been dragged out here on my off day' She says, indicating the body 'and they don't even have anything to say other than _we don't know_ '.

That explained the smoking. Marlowe usually has nicotine patches, resorting to actual fags for cases of severe annoyance.

She keeps talking, 'No traces of violence, drug injection, no wounds, no nothing.' She ran her hand through her short blond hair in exasperation, 'She might as well be the sodding Sleeping Beauty for all we know.'

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Sooooo... any thoughts ?

Thanks for reading !


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